


A Willing Sacrifice

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Extra Treat, F/F, Magic, Non-Human Creatures In A Human Body, Other, Ritual Sex, Teasing, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Melian strikes a deal with creatures of the darkness to protect the borders of Doriath.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> I adored so many of your prompts, Elleth, but finally settled on this one; I hope you like this!
> 
> In addition to what's mentioned in the tag, there are also minor selfcest elements in this fic.

There are darknesses in Nan Dungortheb not known to mortals, creatures from before the beginning of the world. Unlike the brood of Ungoliant, whom the Girdle wards against, they do no active harm to her people. Instead, their darkness infects the trees and the soil and the wind, and, would lend malice to the forest if they were allowed free rein.

Melian's powers cannot keep them out. And so she has struck a bargain with the creatures, and every autumn, she makes this sacrifice, to keep the darkness away.

The trees are preparing for the coming winter, stripped bare as Melian makes her way across the forest. With every step that she takes, she grows closer to the border of the protection of the Girdle, and grows closer, too, to the one who will come.

When she reaches the boundaries of her power and steps outside, she feels, immediately, diminished. The world is familiar no longer; everything around her is a threat. But she cannot think of that. There is a task to be done.

Melian allows the cloak she has wrapped around herself to fall. Beneath it, she is naked, and she shivers at the cold bite of wind on her skin. Then, with one careful, precise stroke, she slices the skin of her forearm with the knife she has brought, and blood falls, drop by drop, to the ground.

The blood will summon one of the creatures of Nan Dungortheb. It is always one, a representative of sorts of all the darknesses of the valley, and the form the creature takes is that of a woman. This, Melian supposes, is a blessing. She makes a willing sacrifice, but between whatever mortal facade that can be conjured up and the true form of the shade, there is no choice.

And she comes.

Melian feels her rising, the blood giving her the power to sustain a mortal form, the blood and the life Melian gives her with the blood. Bit by bit, the darkness intensifies, contorts, solidifies, until the shape of a woman is visible.

A shape, and no more. A mockery of what a _fána_ should be, a cloud of darkness, and she feels the wrongness. Melian shudders when the hands reach out to touch her.

The shudder soon turns to one of pleasure; the woman's fingers are formless, no rough edges or callouses, smooth, smooth skin, so smooth that one could make a case for not calling it skin, but they are skilful, brushing over Melian's face and torso, tracing the skin of her ribs, gently caressing her breast.

And then the woman _steps_ —and there is no other word but this, as strange as it sounds—into Melian. Her body melds into Melian's, and Melian feels her _moving_ inside her, and it is strangely pleasurable.

And Melian dances.

She dances across the boundaries of the Girdle, spinning through trees, a primeval dance which she only has the ability to perform once a year. When she dances, the woman dances with her, her body echoing Melian's movements _inside_ Melian. The movements send jolts of pleasure through her, and it is a struggle to keep her concentration intact, to enact the steps of the dance perfectly.

And finally, after a dizzying eternity of whirlwind movement and excruciating ecstasy, it ends.

The woman—the thing—moves out of her, again, and wraps itself around her, caressing her body, sending tendrils of touch across her skin. She is engulfed by the other, the woman of darkness, and through the woman by all the creatures of Nan Dungortheb.

And it is awful, gentle teasing touches building her arousal but doing nothing to give her relief, squeezing her nipples and brushing sensitive patches of skin and brushing through her wetness, the gentle massaging of her mound (which is a constant across all the other touches) providing not quite enough pressure.

She hovers on the edge of climax for an eternity, and then—

A sudden burst of pleasure. Melian does not know how it happens, and cannot learn how to replicate it, but pleasure tingles through body, indescribably wonderful, and at the same time, the teasing gives way, _not quite enough_ becoming _just enough_.

And always, every year, her climax is strong enough that she blacks out, so utterly grounded to her _fána_ that she cannot prevent her mind from following her body.

When she returns to her senses, she is alone, lying naked on the forest floor. Doriath and its people are safe for another year.


End file.
